Dave Mulholland, mid-level bureaucrat who got the cushy job of determining who’s sent off to colonize space. In this world, in order to jump-start Earth’s space colonialism, rockets are sent off in a near-constant chain, each containing fifty men and fifty women; these lucky souls are paired off, married, and dumped off on a habitable solar body of some kind to colonize it. Someone had come up with the brilliant idea that, if mankind didn’t want to colonize the stars on its own, they’d do so by force, with the rather unsavory means justifying the major advantages it’d reap for future generations. Mulholland has a number of qualms about his job, but by keeping the selected colonists as numbers on a card, he manages to stay sane.

So, were you expecting Dave to end up on a rocketship blasting off to a colony world, as upcoming elections could see him out of a job? No, they already wrote that book, and it was called The Space Merchants. Instead, we’re taken to our cast of characters, who are, in order: a collegiate sad-sack (Mike Dawes), a singing tramp (Cherry Thomas), the cockiest swingin’ dick ever to come down the pike (“Ky” Noonan), and a whimpering ditz (Carol Herrick). The process is interesting—we see these characters’ daily lives up until they receive their space conscription letter, and how they take the news of their selection—and then, they’re off!At their new home planet, things take a dramatic turn, and we enter the third act, or plot, as it were: the one advertised on the cover. Our four characters are dragged off by these crazy aliens, furry tentacled things, who are studying human actions and relationships. The last thirty or forty pages has passable tension and development as these four characters are stuck together and forced to make the best of it. While it’s a bit late in the story, it has some good tension, friction, and developing insights into the characters.

The Seed of Earth feels like two good ideas crammed together to make one novel: the idea of systematic forced colonization, and the idea of aliens capturing space colonists and pitting them against each other. Neither are bad ideas; the shallowness is a problem related to Ace and its size constraints. It’s an average example of early Silverberg, and mediocre early Silverberg at that: it has nothing of the grandeur of his later works, though it’s passable as a hundred-forty-page adventure yarn

a place between galaxies. There was also some interesting anthropological efforts, at figuring out the culture of a group of psychic creatures that have slowly evolved for tens of millions of years and how that would affect their perspective of themselves. There were definitely some gaps in terms of plot and character development so I wouldn't credit this book as an example of excelling writing

If a man's got talent and guts to buck society, he's obviously above average. You want to hold on to him. You straighten him out and turn him into a plus value. Why throw him away? Do that enough and all you've got left are the sheep.Listen, normals! You must learn what it is. You must learn how it is. You must tear the barriers down. You must tear the veils away. We see the truth you cannot see... That there is nothing in man but love and faith, courage and kindness, generosity and sacrifice. All else is only the barrier of your blindness. One day we'll all be mind to mind and heart to heart...”

Written in 1959, the main plot involves a yacht-designer, Thomas Blaine, who is returning from vacation when he loses control of his car and slams head on into an oncoming vehcle:i

At the moment he knew he was dying. An instant later he knew that he was quickly, commonly, messily, painlessly dead.

Uh…not so fast.arquitectura oriental domina o mundo chineses potência espacial desde Marte em 97então entraste? isso é a pior coisa toda a gente a perguntar então entraste ? caralho acho que tem um carro novo agoratambém o carro tá todo coisoacho que vou ver os ballet rose (soap opera)um gajo esfalfa-se e diz quem tu?o diálogo na realidade destoa do diálogo literário mais conciso mais compreensível etc.....escrita marciana em pedra mas marcianos estão out herói diz que vem de plantação de borracha no amazonas para se inserir em 2110 com falsa identidade e ninguém questiona o gajo Thomas wakes up in the year 2110 to discover that his mind has been rescued and brought forward into the future where it has been given a new body. The operation was part of a marketing campaign for a company called the Rex Corporation that specializes in reincarnation and life extension procedures.However, the day after Thomas awakes he learns that the CEO of the company has elected not to proceed with the advertising and that Thomas is free to go. Thomas leaves the hospital and finds himself strolling around New York in the year 2110.What Thomas finds, and what the rest of the short novel explores, is a society that has proven the existence of life after death. In addition, science has evolved to the point where life can be extended almost indefinitely through the use of body-replacement and similar procedures…but, of course, only for those with the money to pay for the procedure. As one character explains to Thomas,

We got this high-tension energy web. When the body dies, that web should be able to go on existing, like a butterfly coming out of the cocoon. Death is simply the process that hatches the mind from the body. But it doesn't work that way because of the death trauma...Dying is a tremendous psychic shock, and most of the time the energy web gets disrupted, ripped all to hell. It can't pull itself together, it dissipates, and you're completely dead.

It is then explained to Thomas that, through a combination of science application and eastern philosophies such as yoga, the energy web can be strengthened to the point that it survives the death trauma.

In Kingdoms of the Wall all the natives have to do is effect some metamorphosis of their bodies, an innate adaptive feature of their physique. In this (and in other physical features) they resemble the Metamorphs or Shapeshifters

If you love luxury hotels, you will love this book. Otherwise - if you are looking for the places in the world to see before you die, look at UNESCO's ever-growing list of heritage sites, which isn't quite to 1000 yet, but will be in just a few years. As a world traveler, I can tell you that Schultz misses the mark again and again regarding the most beautiful or most interesting or most historic places to see in any given country (when she doesn't skip entire countries!)

Depopulation Bomb: Used by the Martian colonists in the past to wipe out most of Mankind on Earth, giving rise to the ethnic and political variety of the world of 3050 A.C. The Haijacs decide to borrow the idea to solve the Wog problem.

The Dulcinea Effect: A short conversation under the moonlight and Yarrow is out to risk his life for Jeannette.

The Evils of Free Will: Stray from reality (Sigmen's path) too much and you'll be sent to "H" for the crime of hindering the coming of the Timestop, the day Sigmen will return and give every good sigmenite an universe to rule over. Oh, and everything bad that ever happens to you is your fault for straying off the real path.

Pollony's dream formed around a glare of light, a tang of men's lotion. Then she was awake to Brendel poking her.

"I'm hungry."

She struggled to burrow back into sleep.

"I'm starving, kid. I can't sleep."

She bleared at the timespot. It was three a.m. "Go 'way."

"Aw, gimme an omelette." Brendel ate a lot lately. His features were coarsening from it; his body was plumpening.

She argued and protested and whined, and he hit her. But it didn't make her feel good any more when he hit her.

Kitchen Central was inop for the night. She punched Storage. Dried ingredients materialized on the cookgrid, a flat metal sheet set into the countertop.

Later, as she took the omelette up, she heard Brendel setting the opera tapes. She scowled. But when opera shattered their live she dropped the skillet and cried, "Oh! Do we have to listen to that trash?" Her voice was more weary than shrill. The opera routine was getting old.

"What you calling trash?" He twitched his plump shoulders.

"It makes me sick!"

He spat profanity.

It wasn't a good fight. He knew something was wrong and he hit her too hard. She slugged back, hurt her hand, cursed, ran and locked herself into the sleep.

She was asleep when he came pounding. She woke and pointed the lock open. She glared.

He said nothing. He ordered his smaller collections—his miniature horses, his ballpoint pens and his old-time cereal box missiles—on to his storeshelf before mounting his sleepshelf and pointing out the light.

She could hear him not sleeping.

Finally he muttered, "Too damn much cheese but it was okay."

She said nothing. She didn't almost cry as she might have a month before.

Brendel had appeared on their grid a year before, a dark, pugnacious young man, jittering and nervous. "Clare Webster around?"

"Mother isn't here." Her mother collected men. She met them at drinking clubs or collector meets. She gave them her grid card and took theirs, making them promise to come see her. If a man came, she tacked his card on her bulletin board. If he came twice or three times, she marked his card with colored pencil.

She was seventeen and tired of collecting china roosters and peach-can labels. She was tired of seeing the same stupid people every day. Somewhere there was someone handsome and perfect, and she had to find him and become perfect too. She couldn't waste all her life being stupid like her mother.

It took her two hours to see that Brendel was the perfect person. He was handsome, aggressive, easy to be with. He quarreled all the time and he even had a full-time job.

She married him. She dropped her little-girl collections and diversions. She was no longer a formless adolescent. She was very solid, very adult.

But the solidness had gone. She had found that Brendel's aggressiveness masked fear; his quarrelsomeness masked insecurity. Worst, he had no imagination. He plodded.

It had begun two weeks before. Brendel had come home from work tight and tense. He tried eating, he tried opera and quarreling, he tried exercises. Finally he said, "I'm gonna go see Latsker Smith. Wanta come?"

"Who the hell's Latsker Smith?" Already she was sick of the opera routine—and a little sick of Brendel.

"Drives a car. From Boston. Fella at the plant told me he's in centercity."

Minutes later they gridded out of the suburban maze. They materialized on a corner grid in centercity. There was no one on the dusty street. There was no car near the gaunt brick building where Latsker Smith was staying. They plopped on the doorstep.

Brendel fidgeted and talked. Latsker Smith was the son of a rich industrialist. His father wouldn't support him unless he worked, and Latsker wouldn't work. So he had to live on government non-employment allowance. His pre-grid automobile and airplane were his only diversions. Since he couldn't leave Boston by automobile, Boston being walled up like any city by the streetless suburbs, he saved his allowance until he could commercial-grid his car to another city. There he raced and squealed and spun through the deserted streets of centercity until he had saved enough to commercial-grid the car elsewhere.

A throbbing split the air. A red splinter of car hurtled around the corner and squealed to the curb. A tall, lank man unfolded, ignoring them.

Brendel sprang to overwhelm him. He pulled him to the steps to make introductions. But Latsker Smith peered absently at Pollony and she was embarrassed that Brendel acted like an eager child confronting some heroic figure from a dream.

"Latsker's pop got money." Brendel launched into his story again.

When the story fizzled she said, "Why couldn't you get a job?"

Smith held his head tilted. "Don't want a job."

"If you had a job you wouldn't have to stay one place so long."

"No use being anyplace if I have to leave my car."

She pursed her lips. Inside the car she could see seats, straps, a wheel. It was incomprehensible that he strapped himself in and hurtled through the streets. "It's a stupid thing to do," she said. "You'll get killed."

"No," he said.

"If you hit something you will. I've heard those atrocity stories. There were more people killed in automobiles from—"

"Nothing to hit," he said.

She flung out her arms. "Buildings! Poles!" His lack of response offended her.

"No need to hit them."

"I've seen the films!" She had seen the crumpled metal, the severed limbs, the spreading blood.

"Driver error. No drivers left. Too expensive on government allowance."

"No one stupid enough left, you mean!" But it was stupid to glare when he wouldn't frown. "Okay, what's it feel like?" she demanded.

He lifted his shoulders and dropped them.

"It must feel some way." She peered down into the machine, trying to imagine herself hurtling in it. "You fly an airplane too," she accused.

He nodded.

"I bet it feels just like gridding. And it takes longer."

"Gridding." He snorted, mildly. "There's no sensation at all to gridding."

"Then how does it feel to fly?" she prodded.

Brendel moved restlessly, bored. "Let's get going."

"We just got here, stupid," she protested.

He was already pulling her to the corner grid. "I'm getting hungry."

She tried to jerk her arm free but couldn't. "How long will you be here?" she called back, swatting Brendel's arm.

He lifted his shoulders and dropped them.

"If I come—" But Brendel had given their number. They were outside their own door, and she hadn't felt a thing. Today she resented not feeling a thing.

"These weird-o's, they talk too much. I'm hungry."

She resented punching his food and didn't even want to quarrel.

She drowsed back into sleep, remembering. Everything was empty. She ate, she slept, she quarreled, she gridded around seeing friends. What else was there? She couldn't get a job; there weren't that many jobs. And with the government allowance for not working, who needed a job? Who needed anything? A time of plenty, her school machine had called it. You just gridded around collecting and arguing to make it interesting. There were so many people moving so fast that you had to quarrel and push or you'd get stepped on.

It was all stupid. Brendel didn't help a bit. He was stupid too.

She tried to imagine Latsker Smith echoing through the empty streets in his scarlet splinter of car. Latsker Smith couldn't be stupid.

She slept three hours before the gridbell rang.

Elka, her cousin, stood on the grid, loose-haired, big-toothed. She swung a hatbox. "I didn't get you up?"

"No," Pollony said hopelessly.

"I'm gridding to NYC hatting and—"

"It's not even seven."

"Poll, I'm contritest but you weren't sleeping and—"

"I don't need hats."

"You haven't seen the darling I got in Paris. I gridded over with Sella Kyle and, honestly, there was a shop that—"

She convinced Elka that she was not going hatting. Elka took her toll in coffee and gridded after her Paris hat. Pollony barely admired it and Elka left.

Before she could dial Brendel's breakfast her mother was on the grid, fluffy, fleecy, thrusting a wad of bills at her.

"Just on my way to Mexico, toodle. Punch me some coffee?" Breathless moments later she was gone.

"What took so long?" Brendel demanded when she woke him.

"Momma stopped." She hated him like this, his face creased and puffy from sleep. She had never thought he would get fat.

He gulped his breakfast and left. Sometimes she hated him for just being.

The gridbell rang. It was a salesman. He insinuated she didn't have the money to buy his product. She said his merchandise stank. He left grinning but she didn't feel better.

The bell rang. A young man muttered, "Mis-grid," and disappeared.

She had gotten to the dress when she heard the door open. She eyed the hall reflector and saw Ferren, her mother's brother, slip into the cook. She dressed hastily. Ferren would order breakfast and keep the silver to turn in from his own grid for the deposit.

He was plumped up to the counter, a wooly haired man, attacking a stack of eggcakes.

"Let me have them."

He purred, taking spoon and knife from a pocket. "The government allowance is hardly sufficient for a man of my tastes. Shielded by your father's fortune as you are—"

"You could get a job." She punched coffee. She wished he would go away. He was always watching, smiling, spinning together soft words.

"He isn't here." Gridco could not remove a grid even though the subscriber refused to pay his quarterly bill. The grid was held by law to be essential to human existence in the twisting, walled alleys of suburbia. Gridco could only send collectors to follow until their quarry fell or was pushed into their hands. And a man who had once fallen into Gridco hands paid eagerly forever after.

"We can pull another trace."

"Do that!" She slammed the door.

She had time for a quick swallow of coffee before the bell rang.

"He didn't go no farther."

She sighed. "Well, he won't come out. I can't make him."

"He'll come sometime." They leaned back against nothing, waiting.

"You're blocking my grid."

Dutifully they stepped into the narrow corridor.

She slammed the door. "They are going to stand there until you go out."

Ferren drained his coffee cup. "I'll settle here, then."

"If you—"

He tutted. "Thank you for the lunch invitation."

"I—" She bit her tongue. She would not get mad.

He wagged his head. "I'll peruse Brendel's books. Fine collection for a young man, books."

Gritting her teeth, she hurtled back to the dress.

The collectors rang every five minutes after that. They kept ringing until she went and told them Ferren would not come out.

It wasn't the way she had imagined it would be when she was married. What with punching Brendel's meals, sending out his clothes, going collecting with him and quarreling, she hardly had a minute. And the same stupid people, Elka, Ferren, her mother and father, were always there.

The bell rang. Her father scowled, seeing Ferren on Brendel's best sitshelf. "Where?" he said grimly.

"Mexico," she said.

"Pottery," he said, going.

The bell rang. A heavy-jawed youth said, "Miss Webster gave me—"

"My mother has gone to Mexico." She slammed the door.

Minutes later Sella Kyle gridded in, crisp, prim, blonde. "I haven't seen you in such a time, Poll. Coffee?"

She entertained Sella and wished she would go and knew Ferren knew she wanted Sella to go and found it amusing.

Every five minutes the collectors rang.

She had just talked Sella out the door when Lukia Collins gridded in. Lukia had never been Pollony's close friend in school. But now Lukia was always near, pushing, prodding at Pollony, smiling too brightly at Brendel.

"You two are coming to lunch with me."

"I've already asked Ferren to lunch."

"Silly, he can punch his own."

"Oh, no," Pollony said.

"I take the silver." Ferren smiled comfortably.

Lukia flipped her hand at him. "Atrocious man. Now, Pollony—"

It ended with Lukia inviting herself to come back to lunch. She had hardly vacated the grid when Elka appeared.

She unwrapped her purchases, smirking at Ferren. "You'd be surprised the number of hats a girl needs." She stayed half an hour.

Another young man came for her mother. Two salesman, a traveling circular and a friend came. Then Brendel was on the grid.

She went to punch. She hated his trying to give money to everyone who came along.

"No, no, it is a matter of principle," Ferren insisted. But the money changed hands. "And there were certain other obligations."

"How much you need?" Brendel fished into his pocket again, grinning.

The bell rang. It was Lukia. "All these ravenous people waiting on me?" She had changed into a fire-red daysuit. "Dobble, you should have fed the beasts." She snapped her fingers. "Up, beasts. I'll help you punch, dob."

Glowering, Pollony moved toward the cook. Brendel followed, chattering and arguing with Lukia.

Pollony was beginning to think again of a swiftly accelerating car, of her body encased beside that of Latsker Smith and hurtled through dusty streets.

Brendel said, "How many for opera?"

She whirled and glared.

"Pollony's a bug on opera. Tell them how you like opera, kid."

She glared. The last time Lukia and Ferren had been here he had done this, and the time before. Didn't he have any imagination?

"Tell them, kid."

Fool! Didn't he know they were laughing at him?

She wanted to tear loose from her whole life. It was trivial. It was everyday. It was gossip and collections and stupid people. She had to tear loose or she would go on and on, all her life, being nothing but—herself.

She was too good for that.

She was too good for Brendel. He had tricked her and turned into a fattening fool. It was stupid to stay with him.

"Aw, come on, kid."

She drew herself up very straight and imagined she must look imposing. "I'll ask you all to leave," she said calmly.

Gone were the smiles.

"I'm closing my grid to public access. I'll ask you to leave immediately." The words came out stiffly and precisely. She imagined she must already be more than just herself.

"What the hell!"

"Brendel, you may come back when I am gone. I shall not return." She smiled, remotely. "I'm tired of punching your food and going collecting and quarreling and being hit around."

"I never hit you hard!" he said indignantly.

Lukia stared at him. "Dobble!"

"Well, she made me do it. What'm I supposed to do?"

"Dobble, you're perfectly justified!" But Lukia's eyes remained on Brendel, bright and greedy.

Pollony glared. She would not stay and fight Lukia for Brendel.

She flung the door open. The two collectors snapped alert. "I want to be alone," she intoned.

Brendel eyed her balefully. But he had already noticed Lukia's interest. "Where we gonna go?"

Brendel flushed. "I'm coming back. You're not rooking me out of my collections." He turned abruptly and stepped on the grid. Giving a three-passenger order, he disappeared. Lukia followed. Ferren stepped on, tossed bills to the collectors, and disappeared.

Pollony closed the door. She leaned against it, breathing the silence.

Then she hurried through the live, setting it in order. She straightened the books Ferren had been examining and found two missing.

Even as Lukia was punching dinner and saying all the things designed to make Brendel want Pollony back only briefly, as a point of pride, Pollony was whisking into a brisk trousersuit and wondering how much had piled up in the account where she kept her parents' gifts.

Even as Brendel was feeling Lukia's face with his eyes, letting her excitement speak to his own, Pollony was at the bank having her balance marked into her deposit clip.

Even as Ferren was smiling and wondering how much the two books would bring, Pollony was rapping at the door of the apartment house in centercity and being told that, yes, Mr. Smith still lived there.

Presently Latsker Smith roared around the corner and braked his car. He unfolded from the cockpit. He nodded.

"Have you got money to go to Boston yet?" She held herself very straight.

He shook his head.

"I have money," she said.

The pale eyes clung to her.

"My parents give me an allowance, and I could get jobs wherever we were. I just want to ride with you. I wouldn't even talk unless you wanted me to." She had to be with him. She had to sit and stand beside him, as relaxed and withdrawn as he was. She had to freeze people with her words and with her unrespondingness. She had to make an end of stupidness.

He took a deposit clip from a pocket. He pointed to a figure. "Match that?"

She withdrew her own clip and showed him a figure that exceeded his.

"How much allowance?"

She told him.

He nodded to the car. "Wait there. Take me five minutes to pack."

Dreadingly, joyously, she folded into the car. She watched as he lanked up the steps. She settled back, holding her shoulders rigid and her head straight. She would sit and stand by him. She would chill people with her reserve. She would be very solid and very adult.

But minutes later she looked at her wrist and saw that he had been more than five minutes. She wished he wouldn't take so long.

When he came down the steps two at a time, she tried not to remember that she hated people who came down steps two at a time. She didn't like the way his hair flopped against his forehead either. And she almost got out of the car when she saw his trousersuit was much too short. It made him look off-balance.

He got into the car. "Don't touch this." He pointed to the starter button. He scowled. "Or this or this or this." He pointed to the pedals, to the gearshift lever. He reached out and heaved his suitcase into her lap. He said brusquely, "Don't let it bump the door panel." A corner dug into her stomach.

And then he turned his head and ignored her. Completely. And she forgot the steps, the hair and the trousersuit and knew she would not get out of the car so long as he was in it.

diumenge, 26 de juny de 2016

BETTER NOT SPREAD IT AROUND ERRARE UH MANO BEAU GESTEEVERYBODY THINKS I'AM A LIARDOCTOR OH! COME NOW I DON'T BELIEVE THATHEARD ABOUT THE GUYS THAT STOLE A CALENDAR?EACH GOT SIX MONTHS WHAT GOES UP DRY AND COMES DOWN WET?OBVIAMENTE ADMITO-O AN UMBRELLAWHAT GOES UP BUT NEVER GOES DOWN?YOUR AGE ....

world of tiers shaped like a stepped MAyan/Incan pyramid, four steps high. The individual layers are separated from each other, connected only in the middle by massive monoliths. Each layer is massive, containing entire continents.

The world exists in a pocket universe, created by an alien race of immense power. It is orbited by one sun and one moon. When the sun goes behind the monoliths in the middle of the world, that's when night occurs.

People get from level to level by climbing the nooks and crannies of the massive monoliths in the middle of each level. This is forbidden by the "god" of the world of tiers, though.

Most of the inhabitants were kidnapped from earth and their physical bodies altered by the "god" to resemble creatures of earth's myths, such as centaurs and mermaids.

All of this is really cool, and very inventive, in my opinion. I liked this world building aspect of the novel the most.

The Not-So-Good

The not-so-good? Pretty much everything else. The book read like a summary of another, longer book. For instance, while climbing the central monoliths, one of the character's girlfriends becomes pregnant and later loses the baby. I didn't really spoil anything here, because this happens in the space of a couple of pages. No psychological ramifications and no blaming or hurt feelings occur.

The characters were also not very compelling. There was one who was kind of a trickster, but it was obviously a "mary sue"

Xenephrene, enters into an orbit around our Sun, passing fairly close to Earth every 17 months. Close enough that its initial passage causes Earth to tilt on its axis, disrupting weather patterns and making much of the planet uninhabitable. If that isn't bad enough, while humankind scrambles toward the relatively hospitable climes of the equatorial regions, the aliens, armed with their superior "infrared" weaponry, begin an invasion against which Earth appears all but defenseless.

Metaphorically, the aliens are the Enemy du jour, and this is one of those funky utopian novels in which millions must die in order for human beings to see that they really aren't so different, after all. If people are that stupid, though, then "utopia" isn't oneness and peace, it is war and wasted lives. Peter may see hope in the way the world's nationalities unite to fight the invaders, but I see only an ad hoc coalition destined to crumble the first time someone screams "democracy" or "God."

Literally, the aliens are rather disappointing, being chiefly different from humans in their weight. They look just like us, but for some reason they weigh much less. Zetta, if I remember correctly, appears to be a normal woman, but weighs only 18 pounds. (Well, at least she and Peter can effortlessly enjoy the Clasp.) Otherwise, they are, like us, ruled by greed, jealousy, and the lust for power.

It wasn't always that way. The aliens used to be a peace-loving race. But, writes Cummings -- in another of those remarkable statements for 1928 (if indeed that's when it was written) -- one man changed all that, through the eloquence of his oratory. "It is a frightening thing," Peter's father says, "what one evil man can do."

That the problems of the world are only temporarily forgotten is evident in the novel's one real claim to "alienness": man-sized multi-legged insects that the aliens use as guards and cannon fodder. Combine the two worlds and the insects are second in intelligence only to men. Yet Peter isn't fascinated by them; he is repulsed by them. So much for tolerance and equality.

Cummings is by no means an exceptional writer and A Brand New World is by no means a good book. But it is competent, on the level of pulp. And I doubt many people read old science fiction for the quality of the writing. Personally, I was hooked by the blurb: "Xenephrene...made a pretty vision in the evening sky -- until flying things and strange visitants appeared. Xenephrene was inhabited...and its inhabitants had discovered Earth." I was half hoping for an atmospheric first act full of mystery and menace. Of course, at the time, I'd forgotten the story had started its life as a serial and that there was clearly no time for that.

Coup de Torchon is a 1981 French film adaptation of Jim Thompson's 1964 novel Pop. 1280,FAZ TAMBÉM PARTE DO MEU TRABALHODE CHEFE DE POLICE DA ÁFRICA FRANCESA TER PRAZER COM OS PROBLEMAS DOS OUTROS But you could,” Ken said. “You could. We got a fella over in the jail right now for pleasurin’ a pig.” “Well, I’ll be dogged,” I said, because I’d heard of things like that but I never had known of no actual cases. “What kind of charges you makin’ against him?” Buck said maybe they could charge him with rape. Ken gave him a kind of blank look and said no, they might not be able to make that kind of charge stick. “After all, he might claim he had the pig’s consent, and then where would we be?”

― Jim Thompson

“It looked like I’d sold my pottage for a mess of afterbirth, as the saying is. I’d been chasing females all my life, not paying no mind to the fact that whatever’s got tail at one end has teeth at the other, and now I was getting chomped on.”